


Plummet as I Sing

by GaryOldman



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale keeps a diary, Crowley is an engima, Diary/Journal, Jealousy, M/M, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, aziraphale's pov
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 13:07:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21356722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GaryOldman/pseuds/GaryOldman
Summary: "I don’t know what really drove me to pick up a diary.  Except that’s a lie. I do know. Two days ago I made a choice, and that choice has led me to be all but cut off from everything I’ve ever known except one demon. I have humanity, of course, but none know so deeply as I their impermanence. Yes, there is little difference now to my situation before - Gabriel was hardly a paradigm of talking through your emotions (or, more exactly, he wasn’t exactly a paradigm of having or understanding emotions in the slightest), but today I really realised that Crowley is the only one I can talk to. Really, properly talk to.But I can’t talk to him about this. "----Aziraphale writes a diary because he's a big baby who doesn't understand his own emotions.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26





	Plummet as I Sing

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Isle of Flightless Birds by Twenty One Pilots (a very G.O kinda song).

**Two days after the end of the world -  
11.15pm**

Dearest diary. I am, as the blessed humans who are all still very alive would say - rather sloshed. I’ve been rifling through my shelves and whether it’s the three hundred years of disuse or the fire that burned up the whole shop, I seem to have misplaced my previous diary. 

I’d need a miracle to find it in my state.

Oh, wait a jolly second.

Okay, just tried that to little avail. Perhaps I’m too inebriated. Of course, one could zap that whole situation away and be done with it, but I’m rather enjoying this feeling. 

I feel happy. I don’t need to find the old diaries to know that I never wrote that in there. I’m settled into my basically-as-good-as-before-with-the-possibility-of-a-few-missing-diaries-and-a-few-extra-children’s-books bookshop, I have this lovely crisp Moleskine journal and a jazzy pen, and I have spent the last few days with a good friend. 

Crowley, that is. 

I suppose I can say that now. Never dared say that kind of thing on paper before, but who’s going stop me? 

Granted, Crowley might. He’s a bit hot and cold about things like this. Last time I called him nice he threw me against the wall of a satanic nunnery and… well, it was fine in the end. 

Fine is a four letter word, too. 

I don’t know what really drove me to pick up a diary. Except that’s a lie. I do know. Two days ago I made a choice, and that choice has led me to be all but cut off from everything I’ve ever known except one demon. I have humanity, of course, but none know so deeply as I their impermanence. Yes, there is little difference now to my situation before - Gabriel was hardly a paradigm of talking through your emotions (or, more exactly, he wasn’t exactly a paradigm of having or understanding emotions in the slightest), but today I really realised that Crowley is the only one I can talk to. Really, properly talk to.

But I can’t talk to him about this. 

Oh dear, I rather seem to have sobered up. Probably for the best; the bookshop is quite a mess after my diary raid. I should go and see to that. 

————————————————————————

**Three days after the end of the world -  
2.15pm **

Dearest diary.

I am aghast. 

Adam Young may be a leap above the antichrist we had all been expecting, but you’d think the boy would have some heart. My collection of fountain pens has been violated. They’re all ballpoints. Modern, scratchy ballpoints with blue ink. The injustice.

I gave Crowley a call and he was hardly sympathetic. 

“You don’t write with them anyway” he claimed. 

“I do!” 

“You signed the deed to your bookshop once with one of them. That’s hardly using them,”

“That’s not the point. They were antiques, Crowley!” 

Then he huffed. I do quite like it when he does that. It’s very theatrical and unnecessary and just the kind of sound he puts on when he acts as though he’s not enjoying being nice.

“Right, fixed. Are you happy?” 

And of course, Crowley had returned my pens to normal. 

“Thank you,” 

“Ugh, goodbye Angel,” 

————————————————————————

**Three days after the end of the world -  
2.30pm**

A few thoughts have just occurred to me. 

1\. I realise that I could have miracled my pens back to normal. I often have moments like this, and quite frankly I don’t understand why I forget that I am as capable as Crowley in getting these things done.  
2\. After close examination I can conclude that Crowley managed to return every single pen, as well as adding one additional pen. It’s black (of course) and has a snake wrapping around it. The ink is red. It’s frightfully lovely.  
3\. He was in quite a rush to get off the phone. What’s he doing? 

————————————————————————

**Three days after the end of the world -  
6pm**

I spent the afternoon contemplating calling Crowley back to thank him for the new pen, but I’m certain he’d think I was bothering him. He certainly wasn’t in a chatting on the phone kind of mood.

Hot and cold, that young man is.

In other news, the bookshop has returned to its usual state of clean, which is to say I know my way around and that’s all that matters. Wouldn’t want so called customers thinking they can come in and buy the book they want. 

For now, I am about to tuck myself in with a book and a cocoa. A splendid evening, if I do say so myself.

————————————————————————

**Five days after the end of the world -  
10pm **

I was having rather a lovely morning. The shop stayed open for a full hour, and though I would rather they didn’t touch the books, it was a nice reminder of what we did. Seeing people, coming in out of the chill, holding hands, smiling, living. 

It was such a shame I had to kick them all out. 

Half way through the shooing of the customers, Crowley appeared at the door. I ushered him in, which really made one girl in a red coat very cross.

“That’s unfair. Why are you kicking us out and not him?” 

“He’s a friend, my dear. Now please, you’re getting the books cold,” and I slammed the door right behind her. There is something so satisfying about the rush of air as customers are barred from my lovely books.

I could still hear her mumbled complaints when I turned back into the room. Crowley was hovering in the middle with a casualness that suggested anything but casualness. 

“Friend?” he smirked. 

“Are we not?” 

“Hmm,” was all he said. I hated that. “Didn’t like your pen? Thought I’d have heard from you,”

“Thought you wouldn’t want me to,” 

Let me tell you; you can know a person for 6000 years, and moments like this one will never feel comfortable. There was something I couldn’t place. A reluctance from him I hadn’t felt in a century, and in turn that made me feel reluctant which I’m sure he didn’t enjoy. You can know someone so well, but you can never read their minds. 

“What’re you doing here?” I tried to ask, but of course he began speaking at just the same time.  
“I just wanted-” was all I caught before he stopped. 

Quite honestly, in that moment I wanted to banish everything but he and I. Things hadn’t been this odd the other day, so why now were we struggling to have even the simplest of conversations? I wanted to take us back to the Ritz, a little bit drunk and see the poor man smiling again. This Crowley looked like he’d never even heard of a smile.

“Anathema has invited us to visssit,” and though I caught the slight hissing of his cadence, I couldn’t for the life of me understand why. 

“Has something happened?” 

“No,” he shook his head, and I didn’t quite believe him. I cannot think of the last time Crowley lied to me. There’s no need to lie to someone when you’re a demon. No need to hide the worst parts of yourself. Especially Crowley, who I am quite sure doesn’t really have any worst parts (except his driving of course, but that’s trivial in comparison to enjoying the torture and pain of humanity). And for every part of me that is now desperate to go over to his bereft flat and demand answers, there was another part of me in that moment (and in this one) that couldn’t say a word. 

“She wants to have tea,” he said eventually. 

“Tea?” 

“Leaf juice, you know,” Crowley shrugged with artful nonchalance. Note to self: once all this oddness is over I must ask him if he invented nonchalance. It’s deathly annoying. 

“I am aware of it,” I said, still not really having a clue what we were talking about. “And do you want to have tea?”

“Thought you would want to go up. Berate the little anti-Christ for ruining your antique pen collection,”

“Oh I don’t think that will be necessary any more,”

“She’s expecting us tomorrow,” and then he stared at me. 

“Oh, okay,” I said staring right back at him. I was at a disadvantage because of the sunglasses, of course. “Will you take those off?”

“Nah,” he was back to being casual. If I could snap my fingers and miracle away casualness I would. “Outfit looks all wrong without them,”

Well you look all wrong with them, I wanted to say. But you can’t just say things like that to your friend, can you? 

“Fine,” I said in a way Crowley would probably describe as huffy. “Will you at least stay for a drink?”

Everything hung on that moment for me. Not sure why. 6000 years of friendship will create a mountain of moments where either one of you could crush the whole thing, doubly so when you work for an opposing head office. The thing is, we don’t work for either head office now. It’s just us - freelance if you will - and so, if Crowley had pushed me away then that wouldn’t be him pushing away Heaven, or Hell pushing away an angel. It would be all him not wanting to see me. 

“Go on then,” he said, flinging himself onto the sofa in the corner as though bones were optional. “But make it French - had enough Californian wine to last a month,”

So I did, and we drank and then he left and now I’m wondering, why has he been drinking Californian wine without me?


End file.
